


so long, we'd become the flowers

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Series: exr week 2016 [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon Era, Character Death, Enjoltaire Day 1: Embrace, Grantaire pov, Kinda, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements, grantaire is kinda an angel of death, it's just gonna make you cry a lot, like very angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He has a task to accomplish and he shouldn't be wasting time, indulging in his feelings instead of completing his job and carrying on – it's not fair, it's not fair that he isn't dead. He wished to die, just this once. He wished to die because it was the first time he had to deal with Enjolras, and he doesn't know how many more times he will have to see him die like this, helpless, without being able to help him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grantaire is an angel of death and he's forced to witness Enjolras' death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so long, we'd become the flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a kinda rushed thing I wrote for the enjoltaire week: I wasn't even going to write anything but then I did and I thought I had a quite good idea, and since it's not midnight yet where I live I thought I'd upload it  
> I know it seems like the "embrace" isn't developed throughout the story, but it's kind of metaphorical, so  
> The title is from Hozier's "In a Week" since I've only listened to Hozier while I was writing this  
> This isn't betaed so there might be a lot of mistakes, but enjoy!

The bullets pierce through his body for eight times. He can feel them as they tear skin apart, opening blood vessels in their wake and grazing at his organs – in a certain way, he feels the ones that hit Enjolras as well, like phantom traces in his body.

He can feel the way his heart stops, the way his corpse falls onto the floor, without any kind of grace or softness – meanwhile, his eyes are fixed over the other's movements. His body hits the floor sweetly, not as if he's falling, but as if he's starting to fly.

There are moments that go by in utter nothingness, no sounds to be heard and no images to be seen. Then he feels his heartbeat picking up again and he curses, even though he had never believed he was going to die in the first place. He searches for the spot just behind his lung where he's been shot: he traces his fingers down his ribs, pressing down lightly on the skin until he finds the place where he feels the most pain. The wound has closed itself, the bullet has disappeared, the spot will be sore for a few days. He's used to it.

His eyes are still closed, he realises. He also realises he doesn't want to open them yet – he doesn't want to ever again. He has a task to accomplish and he shouldn't be wasting time, indulging in his feelings instead of completing his job and carrying on – it's not fair, it's not fair that he isn't dead. He wished to die, just this once. He wished to die because it was the first time he had to deal with Enjolras, and he doesn't know how many more times he will have to see him die like this, helpless, without being able to help him. He had tried to, delivering careful comments about the flaws in his plans while masking them as drunken ramblings or arrogant remarks. He shouldn't have: one simply can't avoid fate – not even if it's someone else's. His job was to make sure Enjolras wouldn't face his death before his time (which was really fucking difficult, from time to time), period. Now that Enjolras is gone, his job is to wait until he's born again – it could take months or years or even ages.

Grantaire finds himself wishing that it will happen soon, but then another truth hits him: that he has to bury him, or at least to get him as near to a burial as he can without making the situation suspicious. He wishes, for a second, that he had listened to what he had been told: not to get too near to the person he had to protect, not to get too attached. He should have been an occasional customer at the Musain or a grumpy neighbour; of course, no one had explicitly told him he shouldn't have been a drunken man with a fond obsession for art and classical literature that delivered sexual innuendoes every time he spoke, but that was the kind of person who would catch a lot of attention.

And he shouldn't have ever fallen in love with him. He definitely shouldn't, because he was to stand there watching him die and be born again and again and again, while loving him. It was, to say the least, impractical. He could lie to him and pretend to get old along with him, if Enjolras even wanted, but he would never get to be with him until death did they part, since death didn't even touch him. He was, in a certain twisted sense, a part of death itself, damn it. And suicide wasn't contemplated in angels' lives.

He hears howling in the streets and opens his eyes, finally, startled by how near the cries are. He has to be quick, he can't be seen or he will have a lot to explain – he feels his head dizzy when he sits up. It's a feeling so similar to the one absinthe gives him, just multiple times firmer and stronger. It probably resembles the way a human would feel after drinking as much as he does, which is kind of ironic when he thinks about it. He feels his bloody shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin, vivid crimson painting his fingers. He has pressed one of his hands to his wounds as if to stop the bleeding, even if it's useless.

The room is a sorry sight. It's hazy, still dark even if the sun is rising; maybe it will never light up again. The furniture is destroyed, half of the stairs has fallen below. He refuses to turn his head, afraid of seeing Enjolras. Enjolras's corpse. It's not right to put the two words together.

He looks at him reverently. If one was to ignore the blood surrounding him, he would seem deeply asleep. He is standing against the wall, pinned there from too many bullets – Grantaire is definitely not counting the bullets, not wondering how many there will be the next time, if there will be at all. His head is reclined on his chest, his long hair covering his face. He's even lither in that position, he shows all of his twenty years and not one more. Grantaire has heard one of the soldiers say they were shooting a flower, and he can see why. He's beautiful, clad in a red jacket which is slightly too large and apparently unstained, since the blood blends in with the colour too well. His hands are still half closed – the flag he was holding is pooled on the floor, near his feet, just behind Grantaire. Only then he realises he must have thrown himself before him, as if wanting to shelter him.

It could have worked, if he had been quicker.

Grantaire wishes he could fix this picture in his head as a reminder, _do not fall in love_. There will be a next time, later than he wants but sooner than he's ready for, and he will fall all over again. He will be charmed by his smile and enchanted by his eyes and he will be writing poetry about his hair and painting the shape of his Cupid's bow. He will love him as if there is no tomorrow, but tomorrow will come and take him. And it will happen again and again, and he won't be able to stop it. It will be torture. 

Women are crying in the streets over their lover's bodies, and he wonders if he should do the same. He knows he can't, but it feels good to hope for a fraction of a second. He gets up and takes short, careful steps towards him, as if approaching an altar or a pagan god. He picks him up with too much easiness, without fighting any restraints. That wasn't how he'd wanted to take him in his arms for the first time. He holds him like he will break, like he's a newborn or a precious statue. He embraces him as if death hasn't already embraced him and taken him far away, where he can't ever reach him. There's a line of bodies in front of the Corinthe, and there he puts his leader in gold. He leaves him with a kiss on his forehead, already turned cold, and only then he runs away. 

The next time he meets his eyes, he still feels his weight on his arms.

 

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is important and i'd love to read some, so please leave a comment!  
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)!


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